


Richie Tozier, Monster Hunter - It Never Stops

by MacklinWrites



Series: Richie Tozier, Monster Hunter [1]
Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunters, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Explicit Language, Gen, Monster Hunters, Teen Years
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-31
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-05-16 11:52:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14810834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MacklinWrites/pseuds/MacklinWrites
Summary: This is an AU where when Richie Tozier was 13 he helped the Losers Club defeat Pennywise the Dancing Clown but that wasn't the end of things for Richie, it was a beginning. Once he saw that the world was bigger, and darker than he originally was taught to believe he couldn't unsee the truth of things.  By having to deal with Pennywise he had learned that he could fight back, so now he does.Richie, now eighteen, has left Derry behind, and taken to the roads of America to continue his grim work. Tonight Richie has entered a dinner, all he wants is to order a meal and the ten minutes of peace he'd need to eat it.Yeah, good luck with that Richie.





	Richie Tozier, Monster Hunter - It Never Stops

A teenager opens the door and enters a diner, finding the place to be empty.  
Is this an indication that something is wrong? Or is this normal based on the time and day?

As he makes his way up to the counter he remembers that he recently got a new watch that he can check, which upon doing so discovers that it's almost half past two in the morning. What type of freak or loser would be still out and about at this sort of time? A potentially ironic question he knows.  
Yet this is a twenty four hour diner, and they must be that way for a reason. So where is everyone else? He looks around as he sits on a worn red stool to do a quick seat count, this place looks as if it can seat three dozen or so people he'd estimate so shouldn't there be at least one other customer?

 

If he's walked into a trap, or stumbled upon something terrible through sheer bad luck, cause that's how his luck always goes, he may as well make himself comfortable as he waits for the big reveal. He pulls out a smoke, lights it up and scans the counter for a newspaper, seeing one he finds he has to reach for it, which is a bit of a bitch but it's not like he's going to get up simply to check what the date is. Successfully snagging a corner he pulls the paper in front of him and instantly feels much better about the lack of other customers.

It's apparently Tuesday night or Wednesday morning if you want to be a pedantic asshole so...yeah it makes sense that no one would be in this place at two thirty on a Tuesday night. Except, you know, some fucking staff should be around shouldn't they?  
In the direction of the kitchen door he calls out a rather loud; “Hey! Anyone here?”

 

An older waitress comes out of the back to find a young guy sitting at her counter having a smoke. Kid looks young enough that she isn't sure if he's graduated high school yet. He looks to be all of eighty pounds soaking wet, with a head of tousled black hair that may have never seen a comb, and thick black framed Buddy Holly style glasses. The part of him that she can see is wearing the type of unbuttoned long sleeved tacky dress shirt his dad probably wore in college, and underneath he has on a faded t-shirt that may have been from a restaurant or something. The pattern is too faded to tell with certainty anymore. “Sorry about that hun; nature called. Thought I had locked the door...So what can I do ya for?”

“I'll start with coffee, black, the only way it's fucking meant to be. The grill on?”

“Yeah. ” Normally when kids come in this late she gets worried that something's up, that they are gonna be trouble. Initially this kid elicited the same reaction but once she makes eye contact with him she knows he won't be trouble, not for her at least. The kid's eyes...if she has to guess she'd say that this kid has seen some shit. They look the same as her brother's eyes did when he returned from the Vietnam War. What could this kid have done or seen to leave him that fucked up?

 

The kid leans forward to read the waitresses name tag. “Well...Heather. I think with all the work I've been doing today I was so busy that I've forgotten to fucking eat. I'm starved, what do you recommend.”

 

He takes a long drag on his cigarette as he waits for Heather to respond to his question, but seems she's going to pour him his coffee before answering.  
  


“I recommend the BCC...”  
He can tell by the tone she is letting the end of her sentence hang to try to fish for his name, which may be fair play seeing as he did use hers already but he doesn't give a fuck about fair play. Normally. Something feels different this time though, maybe he's getting tired of not giving a fuck? Maybe he doesn't give a fuck about not giving a fuck tonight. Truth be told he may be dead by sun up anyhow so why the hell not? “Richie.”

“Richie. It's a burger with, cheese, bacon, another burger, cheese, more bacon, and topped with chili. Comes with fries.”

“Great, yeah, sounds good. Let's do it the fuck up.”

 

Heather leans as far as she can through the window that separates the kitchen from the rest of the diner. “Hey Mark! I need a BCC!”

A crashing sound comes from the kitchen accompanied by some mumbled, what Richie assumes to be, swearing. Heather shakes her head smiling till she looks back and makes eye contact with Richie once more. At which point the smile falters a little.

Again it's not like she thinks Richie's dangerous or crazy, or what have you but there is an intensity of emotion there. It also looks like whatever caused that intensity has beaten down Richie's ability to actually feel that intensity so it's always there yet always separate of the boy. Something she sees in a lot of the veteran cops that stop by and much like them the rest of the Richie's demeanour gives him a vibe of defeated but determined.

  
“You OK kid?”

The question catches Richie off guard. “Uhh what? Why?”

“You look like you could use a chance to talk.”

The boy sighs, his shoulders sag. The reality of the situation is that he probably can use a chance to talk. There is so much he could talk about, so much he wants to talk about. Even sitting here now, he can feel so many different experiences, thoughts, and truths he's learned about the world weighing down on him. Letting some of them out in a way that didn't require him to be sitting alone in the dark crying when he should be sleeping could potentially save his life. So there is nothing else he can say but; “Yeah, I think I could.”  
Heather smiles; “So what's your story?”

Richie doesn't respond right away. To Heather it looks like he is mulling things over in his head. After several long minutes in silence Richie gives the waitress an apologetic smile. “Sorry, just cause I could doesn't mean I would. Honestly, I'm just here to grab a fucking meal, not make friends.”

The look that Heather gets on her face causes Richie a twang of guilt; why did he have to say it like that? Not wanting anymore guilt riding his back tonight he decides that he may as well be nice and throw the old woman a bone. It'll make the time till his food's ready pass faster. “Sorry, just tired. I'm just a kid who grew up in a small town, and once I finished high school hit the road to try and figure out what the hell I'm doing with my life. Doing odd jobs as they come up, but mainly trying to put space between my hometown and me.”

“That's gotta be rough.”

“I'm used to rough.”

 

This is enough to apparently sate the waitress' desire for small talk cause she moves off a short distance to start wiping down a portion of the unused counter. Close enough that Richie knows if he keeps talking she'll keep listening, but far enough away to let him know that he'll be left to himself if he prefers it.

 

Time passes slowly in the silence, until mercifully the cook puts Richie's plate in the window. Looking at the plate makes Richie's stomach cramp, it looks so good and smells even better. He must really be hungry, as he finds himself immediately annoyed that Heather hasn't already reached the window, and passed the plate to him. Despite the fact that he knows that maybe ten seconds have passed at most he doesn't care he's still pissed.  
Logic and reason often fall victim to the demands of teenage hunger.

He can feel the last of his patience burning away as he watches her finally start covering the small distance required to get him his meal.

He almost screams in frustration when the bells above the front door rings and she hesitates in grabbing his food, distracted by the prospect of a new customer.

 

Thoughts of hunger dissipate when Richie finds himself feeling like he has just begun to be smothered physically, mentally, maybe even emotionally by a very negative feeling that has come out of no where.

A man walks into the diner, both Richie and Heather find themselves turning their heads almost in unison to look at him. Richie didn't even specifically mean to look over but there is something about the new arrival that just draws your attention to him when he walks into the room.

  
The man is wearing dirt stained jeans, ratty runners, and a wife beater under a lumberjack jacket. His greasy, thin blond hair is styled to try to be a mullet with an unsuccessful rat tail hanging off the back. He has hard brown eyes that Richie swears are daring anyone and everyone who even looks at the stranger to bow their head or step up and get their ass kicked.

 

Richie finds himself not wanting to take his eyes off the new customer, there is a dangerous aura about the man even from this distance but he manages to allow himself a side glance at Heather. She seems to be rather unsettled by the man though she ends up doing her best to push on and do her job.

“Hey, welcome. Take a seat where ever you'd like.”

 

Where ever he'd like turns out to be on the stool next to Richie's which pisses Richie the fuck off for some reason. It's like the guy is specifically trying to have a dick measuring contest with him; and no one who tries that with Richie ever walks away happy.  
  


Fighting his instincts Richie manages to swallow his irritation and turn his attention fully on the coffee mug in front of him. In his peripheral vision he sees that even Mark, the cook, has been caught up in the man's aura. Just staring at him through the kitchen window completely transfixed, his body language indicating that he too is afraid of the new comer.

 

“Ah dude...” Richie can't stop himself, the guy stinks. He smells unwashed, of piss and something else that Richie knows but is having trouble naming right at this moment. His comment gets the man to turn, and lean into Richie's personal space with a glare demanding; “What!?”

 

Now if Richie Tozier was smart he'd blame what he said on someone or something else. If he had a lick of sense he'd at least keep his mouth shut and not risk digging himself deeper. If he is going to be honest with himself though if he did keep his mouth shut would he really be Richie Tozier? History says no. “Dude you fucking reek.”

 

The man curls his lip and makes a sound akin to a growl; “And you need to learn to watch your fucking mouth! You never know who you are talking to.”

 

Heather does her best to act nonchalantly, looking about before saying; “If you'll both excuse me for a minute, I need to grab more coffee from the back.”

Problem is she does a really shitty job of being nonchalant; her body language is fearful, her tone is uneven, even her eyes fail to portray calm. When she goes to move away from the pair the man reaches out and grabs her by the wrist to hold her in place. “And where the fuck do you think you're going?”

 

“I need to get coffee!” Heather tries to pull away but can't, the man is too strong. “Oh you need to get coffee do you? You know what? I think you're full of shit.”

The man tightens his grip on the older woman's wrist hard enough that Richie can hear the bones scraping together from where he's seated. Heather more openly tries to pull away from the man but she can't, the look of fear evident on her face now, it's in the sound of her voice as she first demands then pleads that he lets go.

 

Richie isn't sure what to do; this isn't his normal wheelhouse. Or it wasn't until all of Heather's struggling causes a set of markings to be exposed on the man's wrist. Richie knows what they are instantly, well the generality of what they are, not the details but those lines can only be applied through scarification. His mind now also remembers what the last part of the stranger's smell is; wood pulp mixed with old blood.

“Fuck!” Richie exclaims, now knowing with certainty what the stranger is. As he grabs the saucer his mug had been sitting on and jumps off his stool. It must have sounded like a declaration of fear or surprise because it causes Heather to struggle more and gives the man no reason to pay attention to the teen, instead continuing to focus his attentions on the waitress that appears to be pissing him off more by the second. Which is understandable, his kind do tend to have anger issues. Which is good, perfect even as it gives Richie the chance to do this the easy way...hopefully.

  
In one fluid motion he smashes the saucer on the side of the counter and brings the shard he still has in his grip up, trying to drive it into the man's neck. He leans forward to use his weight to give his attempt some extra oomph. As the shard of ceramic appears to find purchase and dig into the flesh, Heather screams and Richie says a silent prayer that the easy way will actually fucking work out this time.

 


End file.
